No Dominion
by auberus11
Summary: Methos is probably going to wish that he'd never set foot in St. Louis. Crossover. new chapter added
1. No Mortal Youth

**Chapter One: No Mortal Youth**

_"Lord Archer, Death, whom sent you in your stead?_  
_What faltering prentice fumbled at your bow_  
_That now should wander with the insanguine dead_  
_In whom forever the bright blood must flow?"_  
_ -Edna St. Vincent Millay_

Methos comes back to life in the boot of a moving car, throat aching with the memory of being strangled. He fights down the first gasping moment of returning consciousness, forces his muscles to stillness and his lungs to slow, regular breathing. It's not easy. Immortals claw their way back from the grave, and the blood re-starting in his veins, the first rush of air into his lungs, combine to create an adrenaline rush equaled only by a Quickening. Still, he manages it, and once he realises where he is he allows himself to move, to perform a body-check and figure out what to do next.

His hands are free, but his sword is gone, as are the three pistols he normally carries, and all of his daggers. This makes the situation even less tenable than before. Not only has he been murdered and thrown into the boot of a car; now he's fairly sure that his would-be killer is not only a professional, but one accustomed to dealing with the supernatural. Searching a dead body is one thing; checking it for weapons is quite another, especially as Immortals do 'dead' as convincingly as any mortal corpse.

Methos hasn't been strangled in nearly a century - or, rather, he hadn't - and it's been nearly four thousand years since it was done so...neatly. Whoever it was had him down before he knew they were there, hardly an easy trick to play on a five thousand year old Immortal, and a garrote is not an amateur's weapon. Methos should know - he carries one himself, and has since the 1730's. It's a neat little curve of razor wire, kept in the collar of his coat, with handles so small that he slices his fingers to ribbons whenever he uses it - but it's saved his life on three occasions. The wire is sharp enough to cut through bone, if one is willing to expend a little effort.

He slides one hand up to check for it - stupid, not to have done so before - and a chill settles over him as he realises that it's gone. No one has ever found that particular back-up weapon before, and its absence now is another in a series of increasingly bad signs. There's no good way to get out of this situation, and the search of his body was dangerously thorough. The car will stop eventually, and the driver will come to retrieve his body - his very alive body - at which point Methos is fairly sure that things will get messy.

There's no way he can pretend death. He's going to have to fight his way out of this, and that's going to attract the attention of whoever hired the assassin in the first place. The only positive side to the whole thing is that he's going to get the chance to find out who that was before they find out that he's not dead.

The car comes to a stop. He does his best to prepare for a sudden exit from the boot, despite the cramped conditions, trying not to betray himself by any drastic movements. The engine shuts off, and he feels one of the doors open and shut. Just one, and he thanks every god he's ever even heard of for that, because a second man with a gun might have proven permanently fatal, especially if they were bright boys and could draw conclusions.

A few seconds later, the key is inserted into the lock. As the lid of the boot swings open, he launches himself outward, the stiffness in his muscles easily overcome by five thousand years of fire and determination and the desire to live. He collides with the assassin, hits the man square in the chest in the sort of tackle he's seen in American football games, and the two of them go sprawling backwards into dirt and sunlight.

Methos lands on top and takes advantage of that for all he's worth, digging in a knee and an elbow in the first millisecond, then brings his hands up to snap the man's neck. Except his arm is caught, twisted, and he barely manages to knot one hand in the assassin's collar.

The assassin shoves Methos off and over, landing on top of him. Methos' hand brushes the other man's back, feels the lump of a hidden gun. He slips it from the holster as they roll, thumbing the safety off as he brings it up and jams it hard into the man's chest. He realises that there's a matching pain in his own chest, and glances down to see a second pistol aimed directly at his heart.

Everything freezes, narrows down to the pain in his ribs, the air burning in his lungs, and the steel and oil sensation of the gun in his hand, his finger on the trigger. He can feel the man's heartbeat through the pistol's grip. The pale blue eyes staring down at him are as cold as Kronos' ever were, and Methos realises that he's got about half a second before they both squeeze the trigger and die together. He'll come back, of course, but probably not before someone comes along, and he needs to avoid any more exposure. Besides, it has just occurred to him that the entire thing could be a setup for the assassin rather than for himself. Methos does not like being used as a weapon.

"That's not going to work," he rasps, letting a little of what he really is show in his eyes; a hint of Death, a trace of the razor's edge in his voice. "And I can guarantee that I'll have enough time to pull this trigger."

"Silver bullets," the man says flatly. Both of them are still breathing hard.

"So what?" Methos asks, and lets that sink in for a brief second before he smiles, the curve of his lips that once frightened kings and princes into submission. The assassin doesn't even flinch. Instead, there is a cool calculation in those blue eyes that makes the blacker parts of Methos wonder what he could construct out of this darkling mortal. Wonder, and crave.

"What are you?" the man demands. He's fair-haired and slender, a New World aristocrat with an accent that's pure American heartland, region non-specific.

"None of your bloody business," Methos tells him precisely.

"You'd better-"

"Shut up," Methos says coldly, emphasizing his words with a jab of the pistol in his hand. "Pay attention. If you pull that trigger, I'll pull this one. We'll both die, and I am the only one who will come back. If I wanted you dead, you would be. Put your gun away."

"You first."

"Why? So that you can shoot me and try chopping up the corpse? It won't work," he lies, "and it will irritate me." He doesn't need to add that irritating him is a bad idea. "I assume you're a professional?" He doesn't wait for an answer, just keeps talking. "There is no reason for a professional killer to be sent after me, aside, of course, from what I am."

Realization sparks in the blue eyes, and Methos continues, "If your employers know what I am - which is another safe assumption to make - then they must have also known that your death was the most likely outcome of this scenario." He makes sure his eyes are locked on the mortal's, and lets the edge creep back into his voice. "I would like to explain personally to them why that was a bad idea."

"You're not the only one," the man mutters, and the danger in his eyes is a reflection of what Methos knows can be seen in his own.

"Adam Pierson," he says, and it's an offering of peace, and possibly of mutual war.

"Edward," the other man tells him, and pulls his gun out of Methos' ribcage.

Methos reciprocates, and Edward rolls off of him and to his feet in a smooth movement that is almost as impressive as a vampire's grace. He does not offer Methos a hand, but then again, Methos hadn't expected one. He gets to his feet.

"So," he says, dusting himself off. "Where are we?" Edward raises a pale eyebrow.

"About forty-five miles outside ."

Good. Methos wasn't out for long, then, despite the trauma to his neck, which takes longer to heal than anything else. He supposes he should be grateful that Edward didn't slit his throat.

"I don't suppose you've still got my weapons," he says, hoping that Edward hadn't ditched them before he woke up. He's had that sword since the twelfth century, and one of the daggers is nearly two thousand years old and has been in his possession since Claudius ruled in Rome.

"Of course," Edward tells him. "They're...interesting. And old." There are unspoken questions there, but Methos ignores them.

"Yes, they are."

"I particularly liked the garrote."

"I thought you might," Methos says sarcastically, rubbing at his throat.

"What are you?" Edward asks, locking eyes with him, serious and intent. "I won't have something at my back that I can't trust. Tell me, or I'll shoot you and leave you here, then go after my client alone."

"Some_one_," Methos corrects him acidly. "I'm human - I'm just Immortal."

"Like a vampire?"

"Hardly," Methos says, with a curl of his lip.

He's not fond of vampires, not even a little bit. Three thousand years ago, he and his brothers cut a swath through the undead world that rivaled their rampage through the human one, and the vampires, at least, have not reduced the Horsemen to myth. Vampires have longer memories, after all, and most of them are well aware that Death was once a living man, one they could not kill, and who hunted them down with merciless abandon. He has heard rumors that they have given his old name to an assassin who kills them as efficiently as he once did, and there is a part of him that enjoys knowing that they still fear him. That if he were to reveal himself, there's not a vampire alive who wouldn't run - or die.

Methos waves one hand at the sunlight drenching the roadside. "For one thing, there's no pesky sun allergy to worry about. For another, I'm Immortal on my own. I don't drink blood, or devour the flesh of virgins." A flash of humor in those cold eyes, and Methos smirks to himself. "I heal very fast and, as you've seen, being killed doesn't stick."

"You carry an awful lot of weapons for a man who can't die permanently," Edward says.

"Oh, I can," Methos tells him lightly. "But only by another Immortal, and then only if he takes my head." He's hardly about to tell Edward that he can be killed by anyone with a gun and a sword. The man is definitely the sort to get ideas.

*****

_Author's Notes: This is more of a fusion than a crossover; basically, I've taken the liberty of inserting Immortals into the Anita Blake-verse. Unlike vampires, etc., however, Immortals are not something that the general public is aware of. As far as the Highlander timeline goes, this is set a few months after 'Revelations 6:8'. Methos has taken a job at the St. Louis University, teaching history. As far as the Anita-verse is concerned, this is set about three months after Guilty Pleasures._

Unbeta'd, so please forgive (and feel free to point out) any mistakes. As always, feedback is love.  



	2. Be Not Proud

**Chapter Two: Be Not Proud  
**  
"I know that through your eyes which look on me  
Who stand regarding you with pitiful breath,  
You see beyond the moment's pause, you see  
The sunny sky, the skimming bird beneath,  
And, fronting on your windows hopelessly,  
Black in the noon, the broad estates of Death."  
-Edna St. Vincent Millay

Friday was not going well. That wasn't much of a surprise; Thursday hadn't gone well either. It was mostly my boss's fault. Summer is the slow season for raising the dead, and Bert had been scheduling appointments for me with people that I couldn't help as a way of filling my time - and collecting the appointment fees, the mercenary bastard.

I'd referred two of today's three appointments to Ronnie, the firm's licensed private investigator and one of my best friends. The third I'd been forced to send away empty-handed. Seeing person after person with problems - serious problems - that I couldn't do anything about had put me in a bad mood. I hadn't even been able to vent my bad temper on Bert. He'd been ducking me all week.

At the knock on my door, I sighed. I didn't have any more appointments scheduled, but Bert was known for his last minute add ons. I was going to have to get up early tomorrow, and ambush him when he wasn't expecting me.

"Come in," I called.

My visitor was 5'8" and slender, with short blond hair and cold blue eyes. He was also the last person I'd expected to see. Edward usually breaks into my apartment. He never comes to the office - it's not his sort of thing.

Edward is an assassin, one who specializes in things that aren't quite human. Apparently, killing regular people got too easy for him. He's only ever given me hints about his life, but I gather that the police would be very glad to get their hands on him. He looks like a regular person, and if you didn't know what he was, you might even consider him handsome. He is, however, the most dangerous human being I have ever met. The vampires call him Death, and the title is well-deserved. He's the only person I've ever seen go after them with a flamethrower.

He was playing at normal today, wearing a pair of blue jeans and a brown jacket over a white shirt. The chill in his blue eyes spoiled the effect a little, but he still looked more like a respectable citizen than a sociopathic assassin. Of course, I was willing to bet that he was carrying a small arsenal somewhere on his person. He always was.

"Anita," he said, closing the door behind him.

"Edward," I said, trying to hide my surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"It's nice to see you, too, Anita," he said calmly. He has the most accentless voice I have ever heard. His eyes ran briefly over my body - checking for weapons. Edward is the ultimate professional.

"Are you here by appointment?" I asked. He shook his head and sat down casually, crossing his legs at the ankle.

"I told your secretary you'd asked me to stop by."

"I'll have to speak to him about that. What do you want, Edward?"

"It's business," he said. "I need a favor, and I'll owe you."

I didn't argue.

"What kind of favour?" I asked instead. If it was too much, I could always tell him to get lost.

"A place to stay for a few days, for myself and an associate. I'd check us into a hotel, but we can't be seen together, and I don't want to leave him alone."

I raised both eyebrows. "Might I ask why?"

Edward smiled faintly. "Someone tried to have me killed. I don't want him to figure out just how badly he failed."

"And your associate?" I'd never known Edward to work with anyone but me, much less to bring them around for a sleepover.

"He won't do anything to you."

"Who is he, Edward?"

"His name's Adam." Something in his tone told me that I wouldn't get anything else out of him. "I appreciate the help, Anita."

"Do I have a choice?" I grumbled.

"Not really," he said pleasantly. "But I appreciate it nonetheless."

"This isn't a set-up of some kind, is it?" I asked. Edward smiled; a genuinely pleased expression that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"Don't worry, Anita. If I were going to kill you, I'd tell you. Setting you up would spoil the fun." I believed him. That was the scary thing about Edward. He loved a challenge - and he was still alive to make them. He stood up in one smooth movement, and I caught a glimpse of a gun beneath his jacket. "I'll see you tonight," he said, and slipped quietly out, leaving me to stare in frustration at the door.

After I was sure he'd gone, I glanced at the clock on my desk. I'd been about to leave when Edward had made his impromptu appearance, and was now even more eager to get home. I grabbed my keys, clipped my pager to my belt, and left, locking the door behind me. On my way out, I stopped to talk to Craig, our night secretary.

"Did your friend find you?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "Craig, don't let anyone back to see me without checking with me first - especially after dark."

He blinked. "Sorry, Anita."

"Not your fault. You're not a security guard." Which was another point of contention between Bert and myself. "What time does the boss come in tomorrow?"

"Eight. He wants to be gone by noon so that -- " He stopped, looking guilty.

"So that he can be gone before I get here," I finished. "Thanks, Craig."

His expression was stricken. "Don't tell him I gave you his schedule?"

"I won't say anything if you don't." I smiled sweetly at him. "Goodnight, Craig."

***

Edward and his 'associate' were waiting for me in the stairwell of my building.

"Couldn't get through the lock?" I asked. It sounded like sarcasm, but I was genuinely interested. If Edward couldn't get through it, then it was indeed pick-proof, as the salesman had claimed.

"You seemed a little jumpy earlier," Edward shrugged. "I didn't want to get shot." He stood up, brushing off his slacks, and gestured to the man leaning against the wall behind him. "This is Adam. Adam, Anita Blake."

Adam was nearly Richard's height, but less bulky, with short dark hair that looked as if he'd just run a hand through it, and a pale, aesthetic face that reminded me of Roman coins I'd seen in college. He looked more like an underfed graduate student than someone who belonged in Edward's world, and the sheepish, uncertain nod he gave me strengthened that impression.

"Sorry to put you out," he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his oversized duster. His voice was a pleasant tenor, and his accent was as British as the Queen. Edward gave him an unreadable glance.

"Don't be," I said, unlocking my apartment door. "Edward isn't."

Edward ignored the sarcasm in favor of doing a visual sweep of my living room, followed by a physical check of the other rooms in the apartment.

"It's all clear," he said, coming back to the living room.

"You're paranoid this evening," I observed.

"Someone wants me dead," he said. "Someone with money. That always makes me a little cautious."

"You were planning on filling me in at some point, right?" I asked.

The look Edward gave me said quite clearly that no, he wasn't. I folded my arms. He raised an eyebrow.

"Either tell me what's going on," I finally said, "or find somewhere else to stay for the night."

He gave me a cool, measuring look, but eventually nodded. "I was set up," he said. "I was paid for a job that turned out to be a trap. I'd really like to find out who it was, and I need a place to stash Adam while I'm asking some people some pointed questions."

_Notes: First, my thanks to shellseeker for beta services. I've been wanting to write this fic for a while now._


	3. Before Me Today

**Chapter Three: Before Me Today**

_"While I speak to ye,  
The jaw is falling,  
The red cheek paling,  
The strong limbs failing;  
Ice with the warm blood mixing..."  
-Alfred, Lord Tennyson - All Things Will Die_

"Adam, would you excuse us for a moment?" I asked, and didn't wait for an answer before turning to Edward. "Can I see you in the bedroom?"

He raised one pale eyebrow in silent commentary at my tone of voice, but followed me anyway. I closed the door, then turned to him.

"All right, Edward. What the hell is going on?"

"I just told you," he said mildly.

"Who is Adam?" I demanded. "He doesn't look like a player."

"He's not, exactly," Edward said. There was a flicker of something in his eyes, but it was gone before I could figure out what it was. "He was my target."

"He's still alive," I pointed out. "That's unusual."

"I told you it was a set up," he said. "The client specified strangulation. It didn't exactly have the desired effect."

"He's a were?" I asked, surprised.

"No," Edward said. "I'm not sure what he is. That's one of the reasons I came to you. Have you ever heard of anything that can come back from the dead?"

"I'm going to assume that you don't mean vampires."

"That's a good assumption to make," Edward said dryly. "He died when I strangled him. Forty-five minutes later, he was fine."

"Maybe you just knocked him out," I suggested, knowing even as I did so that it was a stupid thing to say. Edward didn't make that sort of mistake.

"I used a garrote," he said. "Even if I had made a mistake -" his expression showed me what he thought of that possibility -- "there should still be a mark on his throat. Which there isn't."

"So you brought him to me."

"You know more about the preternatural than I do," Edward said.

"That doesn't mean I know everything," I said. "If he's not a shifter, then I have no idea what he is. I've never heard of anything that can literally return to life."

Edward's slight frown was the equivalent of another man's throwing his hands up in frustration. "Can you keep him here anyway? As far as set-ups go, this one was fairly elaborate. As soon as I start asking questions, whoever was behind it is going to realize it didn't work. I'll take that risk -- but I need to hold Adam in reserve. Whoever sent me after him was convinced that he could kill me. Depending on what they know of my reputation, he might prove useful later."

"Could he have done it?" I asked.

"Excuse me?" Edward's expression was politely non-committal.

"Could he have killed you?"

Edward regarded me intently, his eyes as cold and distant as Antarctica.

"Yes," he said after a moment. "Yes, he really could have."

***

After Edward was gone, there was an awkward minute or two of silence.

"Coffee?" I offered, when it became too much to bear.

"I don't suppose you have any beer?" Adam asked hopefully.

"Sorry," I told him. "I don't drink."

He sighed. "Coffee's fine, thank you."

As I moved to the kitchen to start a fresh pot, I asked casually: "So, Adam, what do you do for a living?"

He blinked, visibly startled. "Er - well, I'm a professor of Medieval European History at St. Louis University."

_That_ was an unexpected response. For one thing, he looked too young to be a professor of anything; for another, I would have thought that he'd be in a more violent line of work. Despite what Edward had told me, I was having a hard time accepting that a life-long academic could ever have gotten the better of him, even with the benefit of surprise.

I took a long look at Adam, not bothering to hide what I was doing. He fidgeted uncomfortably and shoved his hands back into his coat pockets, plainly aware that he was being evaluated, and just as plainly not liking it.

With a mind to what Edward had told me, I ran a careful eye over him, looking for weapons. At first, I didn't see any. His long coat could have been hiding any number of them, but the way he'd wrapped it around himself disturbed the lines of the garment too much for me to tell; then I noticed the slight bulge at his ankle.

"I don't know that many professors who walk around armed," I said bluntly. The caution in Adam's eyes sharpened suddenly into something harder; then he blinked, and the moment was gone so quickly that I couldn't tell if I'd imagined it or not.

"Armed?" he asked, so blankly that I found myself looking again at his ankle, just to double-check. He followed my glance, and ducked his head sheepishly.

"Oh," he said. "That."

"Yeah," I said. "That."

"I like to be able to protect myself." He shrugged. "There are some very dangerous creatures in St. Louis."

"So that's what, a gun?" I asked.

"Glock nine millimeter," he answered.

I decided to go for broke. "Why does someone who can come back from the dead need to carry a gun?"

"Edward told you about that," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.

"How did you do it?" I asked. Caution had never been one of my strong points, and I wanted to know what, exactly, I was sheltering in my home.

"That's none of your business," Adam said, and I realized that I'd pushed too hard. He hadn't moved, and the tone of his voice was as mild as ever, but there was something implacable in his eyes that told me that I was treading on dangerous ground. "It can't be taught; it can't be passed on, and if my abilities become general knowledge, I will be very upset."

I could be implacable too. "It's my business if you're hurting other people to do it."

He gave me a searching look, catching and holding my gaze with a pair of green-hazel eyes that seemed to be reading me far too clearly for my taste. Then he nodded, and his face relaxed back into harmlessness.

"Fair enough," he said. "The ability's inborn. I'm not really sure how I do it, any more than you could explain why you're able to raise the dead."

"You're not sucking other people's life force or anything like that?"

"No." One corner of his mouth lifted in what looked like amusement. "With the one glaring exception, I'm as human as you are."

***

_Notes: My thanks to my lovely betas, shellseeker, goldenrat84, and strangevisitor7. The title is borrowed from an Ancient Egyptian poem called 'The Man Who Was Weary of Life'._


	4. And Each Slow Dusk

**Chapter Four: And Each Slow Dusk**

_"I heard the loved survivors tell_  
_How none from death could save,_  
_Till every sound appears a knell,_  
_And every spot a grave."_  
_ -Abraham Lincoln, My Childhood's Home I See Again_

Methos is sprawled out on Anita Blake's couch, reading back copies of the Animator and entertaining himself by planning an article on the evolution of zombie-raising rituals over the past four thousand years. He'll never be able to write it, of course: as animators have only recently begun recording their methods, he'd have no way of explaining away knowledge that Adam Pierson shouldn't be in possession of. Still, it's a way of keeping himself occupied that doesn't involve talking to his host, who is far too intelligent, and far too involved with the supernatural, for Methos to be entirely comfortable around her.

He has the feeling that he'd have been far more confident in his ability to hide behind Adam Pierson if he'd encountered the woman under anything remotely resembling normal circumstances. His association with Edward, however, has apparently put her on her guard -- and Methos doesn't really blame her. The newspapers may call her the Executioner, but Methos, who has been Death, realises just how much restraint Blake's _nom-de-guerre_ actually implies. There is no such restraint in Edward. The man may be mortal, but he's the closest thing that Methos has seen to kin since he and the Highlander put the Horsemen down for the last time all those long months ago. He isn't quite sure which is more interesting -- that Edward is so perfect a predator, or that Blake tolerates him despite being able to recognize it - because recognize it she does.

He can't help but wonder what she'd have made of Kronos -- or, more to the point, what Kronos would have made of her. Something razor-edged and mad, he decides, with dead dark eyes and creeping power barricaded just behind pale skin: something broken and obedient, but far from tame. __

You always did like dangerous pets, brother.

Two and a half thousand years ago, he'd have given her bound and gagged to Kronos as a gift and never looked back. __

And today I'm doing my best to get her to believe in Adam Pierson. Which hasn't exactly been easy. 

Methos is well aware that once someone knows there is something different, something _other_ about him, all of the bits and pieces of himself that he can't always manage to tuck away become much more visible. Adam Pierson is a part like any other; easier to play when your audience doesn't know what you're doing.

Luckily, Blake doesn't seem particularly inclined to talk. She'd raised both eyebrows at his choice of reading material but hadn't asked any questions, and is now in the kitchen, presumably making dinner. Methos has reached the bottom of his cup of coffee and the middle of an article on ritual sacrifice when he feels the flat, atonal buzz that indicates a vampire's approach.

He puts the journal aside, cursing silently. He can think of all sorts of unpleasant reasons for a vampire to be visiting the Executioner. None of them add up to anything that he has any desire to get in the middle of. He wants very much to go back to teaching at the University when this mess is all over, and getting involved, however peripherally, in a vampire attack on a media darling like Anita Blake, will lead the Watchers - not to mention Duncan MacLeod - straight to him.

With any luck, the creature will simply bugger off when it feels his presence. Vampires usually avoid Immortals like humans avoid the plague, despite the temptation of an unending supply of magically potent blood. There'd been a _point_ behind the Horsemen's rampage through the vampire population, one that had been made graphically and well.

A knock on the door dashes that hope. As Blake comes back into the living-room, Methos wrestles for a moment over the issue of warning her, but decides against it. After all, it can't get into the apartment uninvited, and if she couldn't recognise the things on sight she'd have perished years ago.

She flicks a glance at him as she goes to the door - Methos awards her a mental point when he sees the gun in her hand - and pauses with her hand over the doorknob.

"Who is it?" she calls.

"_Ma petite_." It is a male voice, the French accent identifiable as native from two words alone. "_Ma petite,_ I must speak with you."

Blake rolls her eyes and lowers the gun, tucking it out of sight behind her thigh. Her expression is eerily similar to the one that MacLeod wears -- used to wear, Methos corrects himself ruthlessly -- when Methos threw a bottle cap behind his refrigerator, and Methos leans back into the sofa as she jerks the door open, irritation visible in every line of her body.

The vampire in the hallway is as beautiful as most of the younger ones are, and is dressed like Byron on one of his more fanciful days. Methos can feel the power coming off of him in waves, and has to fight to keep his own Presence under tight control.

There's something familiar about the thing's pale, flawless face -- Byron again, perhaps? The man used to surround himself with the creatures, obsessed with the blood and death and sex that rolls off of them like a fog. Methos, finding their games a poor shadow of the ones he and Kronos had indulged in millenia earlier, had left them to their play like so many willful children; but vampires' memories are nearly as good as Immortals', and if the creature in the hallway ever _did_ move in Byron's circles, Methos might well be about to find himself giving Anita Blake a much more detailed explanation of his own abilities and lifespan.

Blake, to her credit, seems unimpressed by the either the vampire's beauty or by his sartorial elegance. "What do you want?" she snaps.

The vampire smiles at her, but his gaze is on Methos, who is determinedly ignoring it. Immortality confers with it an immunity from vampiric influence that only gets stronger with age. Methos used to be able to tell when a vampire was trying to play mind games with him; now the attempts slide off like water, and he has to be careful not to betray himself by looking any of them directly in the eye. Instead he stares pointedly at the vampire's chin before turning his attention to Anita, who is repeating herself with increasing irritation.

"Jean-Claude!" she snaps. The vampire looks briefly in her direction, but his eyes keep returning to Methos, who keeps right on ignoring him.

_So this is the Master of St. Louis_, Methos thinks, and can't quite stop the automatic calculations that come with the thought of taking him down, of taking over. He dismisses them, as usual, and focuses on what the vampire is saying.

"May I come in?" Jean-Claude asks, and Blake goes up another notch in Methos' estimation when she laughs in the vampire's face. Methos smiles, and watches the creature's expression darken out of the corner of his eye.

"Say what you have to say and get out," Blake says flatly.

"Very well," Jean-Claude says, eyes narrowed and fully focused on Blake for the first time. Something about the petulance in his voice serves as its own warning: she is not going to like what he has to say.

"Lucius Decimatus has arrived in St. Louis. He has yet make any threatening moves; still, he has not presented himself at the Circus, either. If he does decide to attempt a coup, you will most certainly be in the line of fire, _ma petite_."

To the seven hells with Blake; _Methos_ doesn't like what Jean-Claude has to say. He's heard a great deal about Lucius Decimatus, and none of it good. He will have a few choice words for Edward when the man gets back as to his idea of what constitutes a safe house.

Lucius Decimatus is old enough to know better than to fuck with an Immortal; old enough to remember the Horsemen as fact, not legend -- but the rumour is that he's very nearly as crazy as Caspian was, and Methos avoids crazy vampires even more assiduously than he does other Immortals. He has no wish to become caught up in the sort of collateral damage that Decimatus is capable of committing.

"Wonderful," Blake snarls. "Yet another thing I have to thank you for."

"_Ma petite_--"

"Go _away_, Jean-Claude," she says, and slams the door in his face. She leans her head against the wood for a long moment before turning back to Methos, who doesn't bother to hide his look of concern.

"It's fine," she says wearily. "Edward is trusting me with your safety. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Methos almost laughs at that, and apparently he doesn't quite succeed at keeping the amusement out of his face, because she snaps, "What?" at him in nearly the same tone she'd used with the now-departed vampire. Again he debates with himself as to how much to tell her, but in the end he's not willing to let her die for his silence; not over this, and not when she already knows a little of his secret.

"Vampires usually leave my kind strictly alone," he tells her. "Even if they don't, they can only kill us temporarily."

Blake raises both eyebrows. "Is your blood toxic or something?"

Methos almost says 'or something' and leaves it at that, but those three weary sentences had seemed to indicate a disturbing willingness on her part to sacrifice herself for him -- which was for the moment unnecessary.

"Not really," he says.

"Then what's to keep them from picking up one of you and using you as an all-you-can-eat buffet?" she asks.

"They've tried it before," Methos says, trying to keep the satisfaction of the memory from revealing itself in his eyes or voice. It's a savage, blood-soaked emotion that doesn't at all fit with the image he's trying to get her to accept. He's not sure how well he's managing, but elaborates anyway.

"A group of us apparently provided a series of object lessons as to why that was a bad idea." He shrugs. "Or so the legend goes. All I know is that vampires walk softly around us; they always have."

He knows he's slipped up when he sees the flare of curiosity in her eyes, and tries not to grimace.

_****  
_

_Notes: My thanks to my lovely betas, shellseeker, goldenrat84, and strangevisitor7. The title is borrowed from Wilfred Owen's 'Anthem for Doomed Youth'._


	5. As Things Unbeheld

**Chapter Five: As Things Unbeheld**

"_Men I dismiss to the Mercy greet me not willingly;  
Crying, "When seekest Thou __me_ first? Are not my kin unslain?  
Shrinking aside from the Sword-edge, blinking the glare of it,  
Sinking the chin in the neck-bone. How shall that profit them?  
Yet, among men a ten thousand, few meet me otherwise...

Lo! My sword sinks and returns. At no time she heedeth it,  
More than the dust of a journey, her garments brushed clear of it.  
Lo! Ere the blood-gush has ceased, forward her soul rushes.  
She is away to her tryst. Who is her pandar? Death!"

_ -Rudyard Kipling, __Azrael's Count_

Over the next few hours, Methos does his best to fend off an excruciatingly direct series of questions from Blake about Immortals in general and himself in particular. He tries to satisfy her curiosity with the same lies he used on Edward, and throws in Adam Pierson's cover story for good measure. When she asks how he could possibly have bested a professional assassin, he shrugs helplessly and guesses that whoever was behind the hit must have been counting on the element of surprise to put Edward at a disadvantage.

Blake looks deeply skeptical, though whether it's at the thought of anything surprising Edward or at the thought of any sort of surprise actually putting the man at a disadvantage is impossible to say.

"Was he surprised?" she asks dryly. They're sitting at the kitchen table, drinking another of what appears to be an endless series of cups of coffee. Methos has a rare moment of gratitude for the Immortal metabolic rate for drugs and alcohol, as it's the only thing that's going to keep him from spending the rest of the night bouncing off the walls.

"Not for very long," he answers, matching her tone for dryness, before reaching for his cup and taking a sip. At least it's good coffee.

"He says you could have killed him." Blake's eyes narrow over the rim of her own mug. The waltzing penguins that decorate it are, in her hands, amusingly perverse. One is wearing a Santa hat; the other, a pair of reindeer antlers.

"Only because I can survive being shot in the heart and he can't," Methos says apologetically. Internally, he's cursing Edward for what was certainly an uncharacteristic burst of loquaciousness. Dr. Adam Pierson shouldn't even have been able to put up an effective resistance to a professional of Edward's calibre, let alone fight him to a standstill, element of surprise or no. The expression on Blake's face says that she's well aware of that, and is planning to ask all sorts of awkward questions.

Fortunately for both of them, she only gets as far as 'how' before a knock at the door cuts her off. Whoever is knocking is human enough -- there's no feeling of Presence of any sort -- but Blake doesn't have Methos' advantages, and she goes to the door with her gun in hand.

The glimpse of blond hair and the sudden release of tension from Blake's shoulders identify the arrival as Edward even before she closes the door to release the chain. When she re-opens it, the man himself saunters in, reminding Methos inescapably of the wilder temple cats in Egypt, his eyes doing a thorough sweep of the room even as he makes himself at home next to Methos on the sofa.

He smells of blood and gunpowder, and the edge of his right jacket-cuff is spattered with a red stain that's drying to brown. Methos doesn't need the external cues to tell him what Edward has been doing. There's a calm satisfaction in the lines of arms and spine that were piano-wire tight when he left, and his ice-blue eyes are empty and serene.

"Well?" Blake asks. She seems to know as well as Methos does what Edward has spent the past few hours doing, and the hesitancy with which she meets his eyes shows that she's bothered by it. Methos finds that wildly amusing, given her reputation.

"It was a set up," Edward acknowledges, eyes flickering to Methos' hands, their expression never changing. He turns his attention back to Blake. "It seems I owe you my thanks. The same client who ordered the hit on Pierson ordered one on you as well, and that one's not supposed to fail." He smiles, and this time the expression touches his eyes; warms them momentarily. "I'm going to stop it -- and the body count's always higher when you're involved."

And isn't that tone of voice familiar? Methos heard it from his lips and from his brothers' for a thousand years; still hears it in his head on occasion. Hearing it from a mortal is fascinating; adds another level to Methos' growing interest in Edward himself. Blake takes the news -- and Edward's smiling bloodthirstiness -- without any visible reaction, beyond the tightening of her hands on the arms of her chair.

"Did you get a name?"

"I will." Edward's smile is gone, but something like anticipation still lingers in his eyes. "The actual transaction was carried out by a lower-level vampire. Tracking his master will take a little time."

"Not necessarily," Blake says. The grim tone of her voice is enough to make Methos look at her, for the first time since Edward's return. "I have a feeling that I know what's going on."

She sketches out the threat Lucius Decimatus presents in a few simple sentences, leaving out Jean-Claude's visit altogether, which is curious. Her recalcitrance could stem from any number of reasons; Methos' instincts, however, are telling him that she's trying to protect the vampire rather than Edward -- which adds another dimension to Edward's abilities, and makes his own achievement even more suspect.

Upon hearing Lucius' name, Edward's eyes light up. For a moment, he reminds Methos so strongly of Kronos that the grief is like a knife to the heart.

"I've heard of him," the assassin says, with the same quiet anticipation audible in his voice that shines from his eyes. Methos has to look away. "He's supposed to be absolutely insane," Edward continues. Blake snorts.

"Fantastic," she says bitterly. "That's just perfect."

"Who told you about Lucius, anyway?" Edward asks casually. The implication is clear: if she'd known about Lucius Decimatus before Edward went on his little killing spree, she would have said something then. Blake can read between the lines -- at least in this instance -- as clearly as Methos can, and her face closes off.

"An informant," she says shortly. It's clear that Blake doesn't want Edward to know about the vampire's involvement and, given Edward's nature, she's more than likely trying to protect the vampire than she is Edward. It seems out of character, especially when one considers the way she behaved towards the creature. It's a puzzle, and Methos doesn't like this sort of puzzle in the people he's relying on for assistance. It makes them difficult to predict.

He realizes suddenly that Edward is watching him watch Anita, with the sort of intensity in his blue eyes that bodes no good for the integrity of Methos' cover. He's been doing everything he can to play up Adam Pierson's image, to relegate his death and resurrection and skill under arms to the sort of surreal episode that the human mind tends to try and pretend never happened. Clearly, it's no longer working -- if, in fact, it ever was. He gives Edward his most absent-minded smile precisely because he knows the man can see right through it, and turns back to the magazine. He can almost feel Edward's eyes narrow.

"Are you hungry, Edward?" Anita asks, to Methos' relief. Some sort of confrontation with Edward is inevitable; he accepts that much. He just doesn't want them to have an audience, if only because he doesn't feel like demonstrating the range or limitations of his ability to heal in front of a group -- even a group of one.

"Yes," Edward lifts an eyebrow. "Have you two eaten already?"

"We waited for you," Anita tells him. "I made spaghetti and meatballs."

"Maybe we should have Adam eat it first," Edward says, after a pause that says more about the dubious nature of Anita's cooking than mere words could hope to say. "Then if he doesn't die, we'll know it's safe."

"I've already died once today, thank you very much," Methos says tartly. "I'm not volunteering to do it again. We can order take-out."

Blake scowls at them; Edward smirks, dropping his gaze to hide the amusement in it, and for a moment the sheer human normalcy jars Methos down to the bone.

"It's not that bad," she insists, and Methos, shaking away the last of the surreal feeling at the edge of his consciousness, pushes himself to his feet.

"All right; lead on," he says. "I've been eating swill in university cafeterias for years; this can't possibly be any worse."

"Thank you," Anita says flatly, her mouth unamused. There is, however, a faint gleam of humour in her dark eyes, and it's with that in mind that Methos gestures flamboyantly to the kitchen.

"After you," he says gallantly, and the moments of normalcy vanish as swiftly and as completely as pricked soap bubbles as Blake weighs the pros and cons of going through a door with the two of them behind her. The pause is brief, and she does go first, but it's there, and it reminds Methos that he's back in the sort of company he once considered normal, where every word has to be weighed before being spoken; where every pause and every inflection is measured before being offered. He glances at Edward before following Blake into the kitchen, and catches the man looking at him with eyes as neutral as a wild thing's.

Dinner, after the build-up that Edward gave Anita's cooking, is surprisingly edible. Methos says so, once he's devoured most of what was on his plate. Being killed always gives one an appetite. That part, he keeps to himself. It's the sort of comment that both Edward and Anita would jump on, albeit for different reasons, and he's fairly certain that it would lead to his answering more questions about Immortality than he's really comfortable with -- though he has a feeling that will happen anyway before this little interlude is over.

After they've eaten, Methos retreats to the livingroom. Edward is only a few steps behind him -- until Blake calls the man back, ostensibly to request his help with the dishes. Methos, who can recognize a conference of war when he isn't invited to one, debates for a moment the merits of going back in there and forcing them to take him seriously. Reluctantly, he decides that it wouldn't be worth the trouble that would inevitably ensue. Instead, he swipes a few sheets of paper from Blake's printer and one of the few hardback books she possesses from her bookshelf, then settles back onto the couch, fishing a pen out of his pocket. His current journal is sitting on the nightstand at home, but this will hardly be the first time he's inserted loose pages into one of them.

From the kitchen comes the murmur of conversation, alternating between Anita's alto and Edward's tenor. The words themselves are inaudible, but Methos can hear the tension in Anita's voice and the unnatural calm in Edward's. Ignoring them requires an effort on his part, but he manages it in the end, submerging himself in the pages in front of him, and in the description he's trying to give of the two unusual mortals in whose company he has so suddenly found himself. He's so absorbed in his task that he only distantly notices when Edward and Anita join him in the livingroom; his first conscious realization that they've done so is when Anita pauses behind him, looks over his shoulder, and asks what language he's writing in.

"Akkadian," Methos murmurs absently, as Edward settles himself at the other end of the couch. He only realizes his mistake when he sees the sharp flash of curiosity in both of their eyes. "It's a good way to keep in practice." The words sound lame even to him. "What did you two decide in the kitchen?" The question puts Anita, at least, on the defensive; distracts her from prying further into his linguistic talents. He's not entirely sure yet how to distract Edward.

"Nothing, really," she says. "We were just coming up with a plan for tomorrow." Methos lifts an eyebrow, and after a moment, she elaborates. "I have some contacts in the city who should be able to tell me if Lucius really did take out the contract on us. It makes sense, especially if Edward was the actual target in your case -- he and I took out the last Master of the City, and that's the position Lucius wants to fill -- but we need to be sure before we take any actual steps. If it wasn't Lucius, then attracting his attention is the last thing we want to do." Methos nods, conceding the point. "While I do that, you and Edward can keep each other company." From the way Edward shifts on the couch, that particular arrangement displeases him. Methos, glancing from one of them to the other, voices the obvious objection.

"Are you sure it's safe for you to be out on your own? There's a contract out on your life, remember?"

"Edward already accepted it. They're not going to offer it to anyone else. The client has no way of knowing which assassin took the contract." The look on her face says quite clearly that she's determined to go alone. Given her attitude towards revealing to Edward where the information about Lucius came from, Methos can only surmise that her sources in the city are supernatural in nature, and that she wants to keep Edward away from them. Edward himself doesn't seem happy with the idea, but he appears to have accepted it. Not that it's easy to tell. The man does a better job at maintaining inscrutability than any mortal Methos has ever met; better than some Immortals, even (Duncan MacLeod springs inevitably to mind). Still, if Edward and Anita Blake are both all right with a plan of this sort, then Adam Pierson is certainly not going to gainsay them. It is not, after all, his area of expertise.

The rest of the evening passes quietly enough. Edward breaks down and cleans two pistols on Anita's dining-room table; she, after an exasperated look in his direction, settles down with the newest issue of the Animator and a notepad, on which she occasionally jots a few sentences. Methos finishes his journal entry and folds the pages away, tucking them into the pocket of his jeans, before opening the book he's been using as a makeshift desk. It turns out to be a history of Byron's dealings in witchcraft and devil worship that bears only a tangential relation to actual fact, and Methos settles in to read, repressing the laughter that occasionally threatens to break free. The scene is oddly domestic, particularly when one considers its participants, and Methos pulls the journal entry back out of his pockets to dash off a few more paragraphs. Once he's finished, he uses it to mark his place in the book on Byron, and begs the use of the shower from his hostess.

"And then if you wouldn't mind pointing me to somewhere I can sleep, I would be most grateful," he finishes.

Anita shows him to both bathroom and guest bedroom, the latter of which holds not only a bed, but a sofa that's almost long enough for Methos to stretch out on. He has better luck with furniture than he did a few centuries earlier, but it still sometimes feels as if everything is just a few inches too small for comfort. She is also good enough to provide him with towel and toothbrush, bathrobe and clean t-shirt. If he is to be away from his apartment for much longer, a trip to the store will become vital.

He showers quickly, letting the dust and violence of the day wash down the drain with the dirtied water, then towels himself off and pulls on boxers and bathrobe. Once he's finished the rest of his ablutions, he sticks his head briefly back into the livingroom to bid his hostess a good night.

"Good night," she says, smiling at him with that bemused expression that Adam Pierson so often brings out in women. Methos knows what he looks like with his hair wet and sticking up in places and the bathrobe carefully wrapped to make him look thin and awkward; it brings out this peculiar gentleness in even the least maternal of women. The look that Edward is giving him is a different story. Methos can't read it, and he doesn't like that in the least.

"Good night, Edward," he starts to say, but the man cuts him off.

"I'll be in shortly. Just leave the couch for me."

Adam Pierson might have insisted that Edward take the bed, but Methos can't help remembering that this whole situation is, after all, Edward's fault, and takes the bed without the slightest compunction. As a result, when the attack begins a few hours before dawn he is sleeping soundly.

As always, thanks to my wonderful beta-readers, lferion and marauderswolf. Thanks especially to lferion, who basically held my hand while I wrote this. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.


	6. All That I Shall Do

**Chapter Six: All that I Shall Do**

_"Charon, indeed, your dreaded oar,  
With what a peaceful sound it dips  
Into the stream; how gently, too,  
From the wet blade the water drips."  
-Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Sappho Crosses the Dark River Into Hades"_

At first, Edward isn't sure what pulled him from sleep; just that he's wide awake, body already cycling into high gear. The house is dark and silent, and he can hear Pierson breathing deeply and evenly from the other side of the room. He has just enough time to sit up on the sofa before the sound of glass shattering in the livingroom puts a definite end to the pre-dawn silence. He's on his feet in an instant, gun filling his hand without the need for thought. The surprise is that Pierson wakes the same way, silently, motionlessly, and completely; that he's standing -- and armed -- only half a second later. One of the surprises, anyway. That too-loose sweater, that artfully draped bathrobe, were clearly chosen with deception aforethought; stripped down to his boxers, Pierson's body is as efficient and graceful a weapon as the sword in his hand. There's no sign of sleep in his face; just a flicker of dismay that is quickly put aside. When he reaches down for a gun, it is clearly a secondary concern. That sword is his primary weapon, despite his wholehearted adoption of the weapons of the present day. It speaks of age.

"Living room," Edward murmurs. Pierson doesn't waste time in conversation; instead, after a disturbingly sharp glance in Edward's direction, he moves silently toward the door. Edward pauses only to slip on his shoes before following him, reaching the man's side just as he reaches for the doorknob. He gets another of those peculiar looks for his pains; then Pierson is through the door and Edward has to move quickly if he wants to keep up.

The living room is already in chaos. Splinters of glass glitter menacingly from the carpet, and Edward can count half a dozen shadowy forms in the light spilling in from the street. Fortunately, his presence -- and Pierson's -- seem to have taken the intruders by surprise. They turn as the door opens, and he can see the split-second of shock caused by their unexpected appearance. That, or Pierson has scared them into immobility. Half-naked, broadsword firmly in hand, he is -- despite the boxer shorts -- an apparition straight out of the darker parts of the human mind, the ancient world standing tall and bloodthirsty in Anita's living room. Instead of looking out of place, he makes the room itself look almost unreal. The thought is a revelation, at least to Edward -- the result of half a dozen clues or more all strung together and finally making sense. All at once he's certain that Pierson is older than any of the vampires he himself has killed, and infinitely more dangerous. It's almost enough to make him regret his decision not to try and kill the man. Almost. Since he's not sure how to make it stick -- or even if he can -- it's probably good that he has decided to restrain himself.

There are only six intruders, so the fight doesn't take long. Pierson hangs back at first, but when one of them takes aim, he shoots first. There's nothing on his face -- no fear, no regret, no enjoyment -- as he pulls the trigger; nothing when the sword flashes in his hands and comes back to stillness red to the hilt. Even as Edward puts two in the chest of the man closest to him, there's a slight chill running down the back of his neck as he realizes just how very badly he's been underestimating Adam Pierson.

Two of the remaining three decide that they really ought to be focusing on their target, instead of exchanging fire with two unexpected guests in the livingroom, and make a break for Anita's bedroom. Edward double-taps the one furthest along the hall even as Pierson puts one in the other's head with all the aplomb of a professional and turns to deal with the last man just in time to catch a bullet in the chest. He looks surprised, then annoyed, as he tries to lift his gun and can't. Edward takes the last intruder out just as Pierson goes down like a puppet with cut strings. The whole thing took less than three minutes, all told, and Anita is just emerging from her bedroom with the Firestar in her hand and a shocked expression on her face. She regains her composure relatively quickly, though, and joins him over Pierson's corpse.

"Is he --"

"I'm not sure," Edward admits. Pierson looks very dead. Then again, Pierson had looked very dead after Edward garroted him. "It might not be permanent. He's implied that a bullet wouldn't be."

Anita nods, slipping the Firestar into the waist of her pajamas. They have clouds on them, and little stars, and the cuffs of her pants are stained with blood, despite her attempts to avoid walking in it. It's everywhere. Clean-up is going to be a bitch. "How long will it take?"

"For him to come back? I have no idea. It took him about half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes to recover last time. I'm not sure if the manner of death will make a difference."

"Shit." Anita narrows her eyes. "The police are probably already on their way. My neighbors aren't deaf, and there were a lot of shots fired. Is that gun registered?"

"Yes. And I have valid ID under the name of Ted Forrester." She nods, visibly committing the name to memory.

"In that case, all we really need to worry about is getting Pierson's body out of here," she says. "I don't think he'd be too happy about coming back in front of a roomful of cops."

Edward thought that was probably an understatement. Fortunately, Pierson chose that moment to make it a moot issue. Lightning flickered briefly over the wound in his chest, and Edward watched, fascinated, as it closed itself, leaving him whole again. A few seconds later, his eyes flew open and he sat up, gasping, one hand lifting to the place where the wound had been. The other hand closes around the hilt of his sword. A glance at Anita is enough to tell Edward that she sees the same thing he does, or at least is realizing that there's a good deal more to Adam Pierson than he allows to meet the eye of even an interested observer. Then that green-hazel gaze takes in Edward and Anita, and the worst of the tension slides away from him. There's not much he can do to hide the superb condition of his body, though Edward can see him wishing there was, but he does seem to curl in on himself somehow, to become less than he was only seconds ago.

"Bloody hell." Annoyance is sharp in his voice. "I fucking hate getting shot." He gets to his feet, tucking the gun into his boxers, then bends over and cleans the blade of his sword on the nearest corpse. Anita blinks at him, clearly startled by the pragmatism of that particular action, or maybe the source of it.

"Are you all right?" she asks. She looks as if she's still struggling with Pierson's return to life. It was, Edward has to admit, fairly spectacular.

"Fine," he says, with a rueful smile and a shrug that are clearly designed to charm, or at least disarm. It works; some of the stunned expression goes out of Anita's eyes. "At least I didn't ruin a shirt this time." Anita actually returns the smile this time. Edward doesn't shake his head, but he wants to. Anita may not have seen Pierson in action, but she's standing in the aftereffects, saw him right after he revived. She ought to know better.

"I'm going to pull some clothes on," Pierson says, just as the first high-pitched wail creeps into the edge of hearing, resolving itself quickly into a police siren. Edward follows him into the guest room. He, too, wants to be dressed when the authorities arrive. Pierson tucks the sword between the bed and the boxspring, and doesn't so much as glance at Edward as he pulls on jeans and that too-big sweater of his. Edward uses clothing for camouflage himself, but he's not as good at it as Pierson is. Still, he puts on Ted's blue jeans and button-down shirt, hoping to defuse any potential police hostility before it begins. Fortunately, Anita has a good relationship with St. Louis' police department. It will make things much less awkward.

Pierson finishes dressing first and slips out to the living room. By the time Edward catches up to him, he and Anita are switching guns. They both look up as he comes in. Anita is dressed as well, in jeans and t-shirt, her hair pulled carelessly back.

"Edward," Anita says. "When they ask, you and I did the shooting."

"And the stabbing?"

"Me," she says. Edward isn't sure why she's covering for Pierson, but he doesn't have time to ask. The wash of blue lights is already spilling through the shattered window.

Dealing with the police, predictably, takes a lot longer than did the firefight itself. The investigators on call are joined after about ten minutes by Anita's RPIT teammates, which speeds things up, but not very much. Edward answers the questions that are put to him, and leaves it up to Anita to fill them in on Lucius Decimatus, which she does without telling them how she found out herself. If he were a gambling man, Edward would lay good money that the information came from Jean-Claude. He's the only one of the monsters that she's conflicted about. It's interesting to see Pierson following Edward's own example, saying as little as possible and leaving it up to Anita to explain his presence in her apartment, which she does by claiming him as an old friend from college. Ted's presence is put down to Anita's need for a bodyguard, a need that both the RPIT team and the homicide investigators accept without demur.

"You're gonna need to find somewhere else to stay for a few days," the lead homicide guy eventually tells her, while the rest of the cops look around the apartment with typically cynical eyes. "We'll finish processing the scene as fast as we can, but with six bodies, it'll take some time. It'll go down as self-defense, of course. There's no question about that." He glances down at the corpse that Pierson's sword made. "I'll still need to take all of the weapons involved downtown with me, though."

The knife that Anita produces isn't really large enough to have made the wounds she's claiming it made, but Edward doubts they'll be that exact with a case that is so clearly self-defense. He glances at Pierson, who faded into the background as soon as the police finished questioning him and is now being comprehensively ignored. He feels Edward's eyes on him, though, because he looks up and meets Edward's gaze with a stare of his own, his expression only slightly self-satisfied. Edward looks away before it can develop into the sort of contest that would attract police attention.

Eventually all of the questions have been asked, and the police have finished with them, at least for the evening. Edward, the only one without a St. Louis address, is told politely not to leave town, and the three of them are told that they can go. Edward herds both Pierson and Anita out to his car and from there to the nearest hotel, pausing only to collect the necessities. Pierson's first priority is the sword he'd stashed away, and Edward can't help but admire the ease with which the man conceals so large a weapon from the watching police. He ensconces all three of them in one room for safety's sake, and the three of them fall wearily into bed, Pierson still and unmoving on the side of the one he's sharing with Edward.

* * *

_Notes_: _As always, thanks go to my wonderful betas -- lferion, morgynlerific, marauderswolf, and goldenrat84 -- all of whom looked this over at one point or another during creation. Feedback is always welcome. The title is from Millay's 'Conscientious Objector'._


End file.
